


Bandersnatch

by WhateverTheMessYouAre



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhateverTheMessYouAre/pseuds/WhateverTheMessYouAre
Summary: Every day we make choices, and these choices determine our fate, for better or for worse. But what if we made different choices? Inspired by the Bandersnatch episode of Black Mirror, this work examines some pivotal choices Scott and Tessa made, and the alternate fates that could have awaited them had they chosen differently, and wandered down another path.





	1. Preface

**Preface: Our Heroes Watch a Television Show and Pointedly Don't Do Other Things**

**\-- December 28th, 2018 --**

**\-- London, Ontario --**

Tessa sighed as she turned the page of her book, and wiggled deeper into the sofa cushions. This was bliss. No press. No media tours. No book signings. No meet and greets. No rehearsals. No training.

In fact, the Christmas holiday had been the longest stretch of time in recent memory that hadn't been scheduled months in advance, and Tessa was taking advantage of the time to do absolutely nothing. Her couch had become this sort of weird, liminal space where she could hide from the new year and the important life decisions she had been putting off for months. Retirement? Probably. Tours? At least one more year. Media endorsements? For as long as that lasts. Fashion? More school? Romance? Marriage? Family? It all seemed so suffocating.

Determined, she twisted her body into an even more slothful position, and refocused on her book -- her fifth book. A knock roused her attention, and she flipped over phone to check the time. _He's early._

Scott appeared at her door in a Team Canada puffer vest, over what was likely to be a Team Canada quarter zip, juggling numerous grocery bags easily.  He shuffled his shoes off with surprising grace.

"What's all this?" She eyed him suspiciously. "Did you buy the entire store, or did you leave some food for the other customers?"

"Hi, Scott. Thanks for bringing the snacks." He provided an alternative greeting in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like Tessa. She stuck her tongue out at him; he grinned at her like an idiot. 

"You were supposed to bring snacks for a Netflix marathon, not the zombie apocalypse!" 

"I couldn't decide what I wanted at the supermarket," he said sheepishly, "And I wasn't sure what you wanted for a snack so..." He trailed off. Finishing sentences was unnecessary in current company. 

"Oh!" Tess' eyes lit up, spotting a carton of chocolate milk, and a bottle of what appeared to be her favorite wine peeking out of one bag, the outline of what would certainly be a bakery box in another. "Let me help you with those." She grabbed the most interesting ones and hauled them onto her kitchen island, digging through them like a child poring through Christmas presents.

Five minutes later, Tessa's pristine white couch was littered with various packages of junk food, and the two of them slouched nearly horizontal, socked feet propped up on the coffee table. Tessa looked over at Scott, and the pile of chip crumbs that had begun to take residence in the fleece under his chin. She snickered. They certainly didn't look like gold medal Olympians right now.

"We should take a selfie," she decided. She grabbed her phone off the table and leaned in as much as her reclined position would allow, forehead coming to rest against his temple. "Working hard on our 2019 comeback. #thanksb2ten #virtuemoir" She practiced the caption. Pulling her best goofy grin, she lined them up on the screen, and then frowned.  

"What?" Scott was chewing around another mouthful of chips.

"You are indecently tanned for Christmas. You're making me look washed out." She elbowed him and then took the picture anyway, laughing a loud, open mouthed guffaw at his immortalized wince of pain. They took another, both with goofy smiles, and then things got quiet.

"You know, we could still do it -- if we wanted to, " Scott murmured, after a while. "We could come back next year. I know we haven't talked about it yet." He side-eyed her warily, and then smirked. "You'd have to get a spray tan." She whacked him in the chest, half-heartedly, a smile ghosting her lips, before vanishing. They turned to each other, suddenly serious.

"I'm not ready yet." They both said, in unison. For a long time, they just sat there, studying each other's faces. This would be the last they'd see each other this year. And then it would be 2019.... And then... And then they'd have to make a decision. They'd barely seen each other over the Christmas holidays -- not the way that they had last year with the training, and the workouts, and the 24 hour constant check ins. Last December, Scott would have known what Tessa wanted for a snack before Tessa did. She reached over and interlocked their fingers to keep herself from feeling like the post-Sochi chasm was forming again, to keep herself in denial for a bit longer.

"So, uhhh... what's this thing we're watching? It's like... a movie?" Scott's voice came out gravelly.

"It's an interactive tv show. You're supposed to be able to make choices that affect the outcome of the story. Jordan said we should watch it together. That it would be  _helpful_. Whatever that means." Tessa knew exactly what that meant. She just didn't want to think about it.

"Ready?"

"You know it."

A few minutes later, Tessa gleefully snatched up the remote control as the character debated over which breakfast cereal to eat. This would be easy. If there was one off-ice area that they were totally sympatico, it was breakfast. Two choices loomed before them. Sugar puffs or Frosties. This was too easy.

"On three." She said, as the timer started to wind it's way down. She turned to Scott, who had a conspiratorial smile that matched her own. They had this. "1...2...3..."

"Frosties."

"Sugar puffs."

Tessa dropped the remote. They both gasped. The timer ran out. They failed to make a choice. They looked at each other...panicked.

"That was weird." Scott laughed nervously. 

"It's okay. We'll get the next one." Tessa said, reassuringly patting his hand. 

Moments later, they both let out a relieved sigh as the character selected between two cassette tapes for his walkman. They smiled at each other confidently.

"Thompson Twins."

"Now 2."

They both answered at the same time again, each choosing a different answer. 0 for 2. The character made his decision without input from the remote control again.

"Oh my gosh, Scott! Really? Do you know me at all?!" Tessa was flabbergasted.

"Apparently not. Apparently I've slipped into some alternate reality." Scott looked mortified, hand flying to his chest.

"If we can't do this then how can we....we..." Tessa trailed off. She looked at him pointedly, before gazing off at the ceiling.

"Maybe... maybe we should just watch this thing. And not....and not...." Scott muttered, staring hard at the tv to avoid making eye contact.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

The remote laid untouched between them after that, and they watched in silence, thoughts drifting back to past decisions, triumphs, defeats, minds deftly avoiding those to come, until the two drifted off before the narrative could even find a resolution. Amid their light snoring the television suddenly shifted, picture dissolving into black and white static. A lone white glyph appeared in the middle, looking very much like an upside-down block letter "y".

And then the television shut itself off.


	2. Keep Your Eye On The Puck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Scott chooses hockey...

**\-- Ilderton, Ontario. 1997 --**

 

" I. DON'T. WANT. TO. TRY. ANOTHER. PARTNER!!!" Scott screamed, folding his jerseyed arms tightly against his chest. His hair was shorn into a buzz cut and died a pale, Mats Sundin blond. He threw himself backward on his bed, scowling defiantly at the ceiling.

"Scott," sighed his mother, "You never know, you might really like this one. Aunt Carol says..."

"I DON'T CARE WHAT AUNT CAROL SAYS! I. DON'T. WANT. ANOTHER. PARTNER! Hockey, mom! I. WANT. TO. PLAY. HOCKEY!!!" 

"Scott..."

"DON'T SAY I'M TOO SMALL!" His dark blue Maple Leafs away jersey, a hand-me-down from his older brother Danny, swallowed him like a dress.

"I wasn't going to say that, Scott."

"MY SKATING HAS IMPROVED. YOU SAID I ONLY HAD TO TAKE FIGURE SKATING SO I COULD SKATE BETTER FOR HOCKEY!"

"I know Scott, but you're so good at ice dancing. If you just stay with it..."

"YOU'RE JUST SAYING THAT BECAUSE DANNY AND CHARLIE DID IT, AND IF I DO IT THEN YOU CAN JUST KEEP GIVING ME THEIR OLD SKATES AND COSTUMES!" Scott whined. "YOU THINK I'M JUST LIKE DANNY AND CHARLIE BUT I'M DIFFERENT MOM! I'M MY OWN PERSON!" 

"I know you're your own person."

"I want to play hockey. All these girls you have me skate with are too slow, mom. I want to skate fast!" He muttered sullenly. None of the girls were fast enough. They were mostly older, and too tall, too slow, too wobbly. There was one at the skating club, that he had secretly hoped Aunt Carol would pair him with. She was younger -- tiny, quiet, but she could skate fast. She was good. Maybe she was too good. Maybe that's why Aunt Carol never picked her. Scott sighed.

"Sweetheart, if you really don't want to figure skate, you don't have to do it anymore. I'll call your Aunt Carol, and she'll call off the tryout, ok?" She reached down and patted him on his knee.

"R-really?" Scott gulped lungfuls of air. He was not crying. He just suddenly had the hiccups, and his eyes were watery for an unrelated reason.

"Really."

"I -- I PROMISE, mom. I'll practice every day. I'll become so fast. I'll work on my puck-handling. I'll never miss a game. I PROMISE!!!"

"I know you will."

Scott kept his promise. He didn't miss a practice or a game for the next five years.

 

**\--2002, February--**

 

Scott's first concussion came when he was 14. It wasn't even a game. It was a practice. Scott had first started to notice that the girls' figure skating class practiced right before hockey, and they would stick around after and watch a little bit of the practice from the stands. "Ice bunnies", Danny and Charlie called them. Although Scott was one of the smallest boys on the ice, and he still looked about four years younger than everyone else, his skating stood out and he used that to its full effect, weaving in and out of players with long smooth strokes, pivoting sharply when necessary to change direction, adding unnecessary flourishes and flairs here and there, just to be fancy. 

"Hey Scott!" he heard a call from the group of ice bunnies, followed by giggling. He turned around to see which one it was. It didn't matter which. They were all so pretty. Scott wondered whatever had possessed his younger self to choose hanging out with a group of twenty or so sweaty guys when he could have been surrounded by ice bunnies. One of the girls waved at Scott. He squinted to try to make out who the arm belonged to. Was it the dark blonde or the brunette? 

Suddenly, he felt himself solidly smack into something behind him. It felt like a tree, or a cement wall, which was impossible, because he knew the arena like the back of his hand and there were no trees or cement walls. When his vision cleared, he felt the cold of the ice seeping through his scalp, and tried to count the pennants hanging from the rafters, although they wavered and danced above him and wouldn't stay in one place.

"He's conscious!" someone yelled. 

Scott tried to move his head, but it felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Eventually, he turned it a fraction to find Stephen, the team's biggest defenseman, who, at 14 was already nearly six foot, and had the build of a small rhino.

"Hey, sorry, man. You gotta watch where you're going." Stephen supplied, unhelpfully.

"Stephen, you fucknut," was the last thing Scott said before the darkness claimed him again.

 

**\--2006, April--**

The crowd was electric. Scott was finishing off a fantastic rookie season with the London Knights, setting records for assists, points, and... well, penalty minutes. You see, Scott was technically 18 years old. But, cursed with a baby face, and still awaiting his growth spurt, Scott looked more like a baby deer than an aspiring NHL player. And that made him a target. Defensemen loved to line him up and take him down. Some of those hits were a little bit on the late side. And as Scott's body flew like a rag doll into the boards, night after night, he couldn't help but take exception. So he fought. He fought surprisingly well for someone half the size of his opponents. You see, Scott had a temper -- an inner rage that was a powerful concoction of fiery competitiveness, mixed with teenage hormones, and overall frustration that the one thing he couldn't train himself to do was grow. One thing Scott didn't have a lot of was discretion. He would fight anyone. He would fight the refs if they'd let him. 

Luckily for Scott, tonight was one of the good nights. He had three assists, one power play goal, and had so far avoided any major hits through the otherworldly skating finesse that scouts were buzzing about. The Knights were ahead in their playoff series. A cute brunette had winked and waved at him between periods. His brothers were in attendance and screaming like drunken idiots whenever he touched the puck. They were on the power play again. Scott cycled down low, passing the puck to a defenseman and weaving himself deftly into position high in the slot. A shot rang off the post, and floated by divine intervention right onto the tape of his stick. Flicking it quickly and delicately, he watched as it bounced off of the goalie's glove, bounce, and then trickle slowly, slowly, across the goal line. 

And then he was staring up at the ceiling as the rink rotated slowly around him. He shook his head and the spinning subsided. A defenseman from the other team beamed down at him, the picture of maniac triumph. Scott would wipe that grin off his face if it was the last thing he did. Jumping back to his feet, he threw his gloves, and took his stance, right arm cocked back, left blocking in front. They danced around each other, grasping, grappling each other's jerseys, jabs and elbows and upper cuts flying, glancing.

The defenseman was a big guy, a tall, statuesque redwood imported from Sweden, but his hands were slow, and Scott was landing blows, and the bigger man lumbered, off-balance. The punches were coming less frequently now as he tired. They were much easier to duck. He lined up a right cross that made contact, and man did his knuckles hurt, but the Swede's eyes opened wide in surprise, as he stumbled backward, looking for footing. Scott's eyes scanned the crowd, victorious, and his gaze landed back on the cute brunette girl. She was grinning, clapping at his performance and he hoped that maybe she'd stick around after the game and he'd get her number.

Suddenly, the pretty girl's eyes opened wide and her mouth opened into a shocked "O". That was the last thing that Scott remembered seeing. Seconds later, there was only blackness and a sickening crunch.

 

**\--2006, August--**

"Maybe you should take some time, Scott," his sports psychologist offered. Scott had been moody all summer, since the swinging arm of that Swedish defenseman clocked him in the back of the head as he pummeled to the ice. 

"Maybe YOU should just sign my medical forms!" Scott countered. "I haven't had any headache or dizziness in weeks! Performance camp is starting soon! You need to clear me!" 

"And the dreams?" 

Scott didn't want to talk about the dreams. They were... confusing. There was music. Always music. Dancing and spinning and cold. And someone...someone out of the corner of his eye. He could never make it out quite right. Always the same music. And the same muscle movements. Scott would wake up with his leg twitching, or his arm outstretched, his toes pointed. The psychologist thought he was 'reliving the trauma of the fight', whatever that means.

"They're just dreams. They don't mean anything. They're not a concussion symptom."

"No, but they could be a symptom of psychological trauma. Of PTSD," his psychologist countered. 

Scott hadn't told him about waking up drenched in sweat, shaking, and he certainly wasn't about to mention it now. 

"Look, it's fine. I don't even have them that much anymore," Scott reasoned. 

"And the.... visions?"

Scott had thought he'd seen her a few times around town -- the pretty brunette girl from the game. Once she had walked into a coffee shop across the street. Another time he swears he brushed by her coming out of SportChek. Once he'd run a full city block because he was sure he'd seen her come out of a book store. Once at the gym, the hint of a ponytail disappeared into the change rooms. Always just fleeting. He doesn't even know why it matters. He doesn't understand why it bothers him.

"I haven't....not in weeks. It's stopped. I'm sure that was just my concussion playing tricks with my head." He lied.

"And the temper?" The psychologist all but whispered it. 

"I've been practicing what you've told me. No more random fights with strangers. I've been doing good." 

"Your mom's been worried, Scott."

"I. AM. FINE. We're done. Just...sign the papers already." Scott seethed. Breathe in. 4...3...2...1. Out. 4...3....2....1. "I'm fine."

**\--2014, January--**

Scott had really filled out in the off season. Don Cherry had said last week on Coach's Corner, that he was finally, after five seasons in the NHL, starting to look like a hockey player instead of a middle schooler, and Scott had all but preened when the reporters had asked for comment after the game. Granted, most of the filling out had been in the neck area. Still, Scott couldn't complain. He felt like an athlete. He felt accomplished. He was playing for his beloved Leafs, and having great success on the third line penalty kill unit. He was racking up short handed goals. He girlfriend was absolutely smokin' hot, and every day was a party for Scotty Moir.

Really, he deserved it. He trained so hard. He was the first one in the rink for Sunday morning practice, hungover, but so in control barely anyone could see his hands tremble. As a local boy, he had sponsorships everywhere, and never had to pay for a pint of beer at any bar in Toronto, or London. Fans loved him. Little kids would stop him everywhere he went to tell him they wanted to be just like him when they grew up.

He still dreamed the weird dreams with the music and the spinning. He would still see the woman out of the corner of his eye sometimes, but no one had to know that. They cleared him, medically, every year. They brought the concussions up, but they always cleared him to play.

It was the last home game before the Olympic break, and the roar of the crowd seemed extra festive. The Leafs had pulled ahead early, but Montreal had tied things up mid-way through the third period, and the power play unit was looking for the go ahead goal with a face off in Leafs territory. Scott kept in defensive formation as the Habs played keep away with the puck. Flailing his stick into the path of the puck, he was rewarded when it glanced off and trickled into the neutral zone. He scrambled after it on a breakaway, smoothly cutting across the ice. Suddenly the strange music from his dreams floated into his ears. He shook his head and made his way toward the net, angling outside, crossing inside. All of a sudden there was spinning. Was this the dream again? He looked back to see a Montreal defenseman dragging him down by the jersey. Music was replaced by loud boos and calls for a penalty shot. Scott mentally prepared his strategy as the referees conferred near centre ice. The roar of the crowd turned deafening, a fever pitch.

Then he saw her. The dark haired girl. Out of the corner of his eye at first, ten rows up, wearing a Leafs jersey, and then he turned and she didn't disappear. He stared for a second in utter disbelief.

This is why he didn't see the punch until it was too late.

**\-- 2014, February --**

It was ridiculous. Standing here, on the podium, at the Olympics, while the anthem played. Looking down at the medal around his neck. Silver tasting of both victory and defeat. His mom crying. The American anthem playing. Memories of spinning around in a tux? Why a tux? Where were his teammates? Did he get married? This was all very confusing.

And then spinning. So much spinning. The music grew louder. It changed. There was shaking and then a bright light. 

Scott bolted upright. He wanted to vomit. 

"Hey, easy Scott." His mother ran a hand down his back and his shirt was soaked through with sweat."Do you remember?"

"Yes." Sort of. He remembers that his name is Scott Moir and he wears number 14 for the Maple Leafs. He remembers THAT there was a fight...or... from footage it was more of a sucker punch, that gave the other guy a 15 day suspension, and put Scott in a 12 day coma with a possibly career-ending concussion. He remembers other things, strange things about figure skating and living in Michigan. He remembers things that didn't happen at all, but feel very true at the same time.

"You should eat something. The psychologist should be here shortly." His mom nudged a cup of red Jell-o at him, and his hands trembled opening the plastic wrapper for the spoon so badly that he gave up and held them both out like a helpless infant for his mom to open. He sighed. The new reality was going to take some adjustment.

All of a sudden he sees it. He sees her. Just a blur out of the side of his eye, but he hasn't seen her outside of the dreams since the game, and his heart palpitates wildly, which causes the heart monitor to beep like a car alarm. 

"Mom?" Scott's voice quivers. "I see her." He takes in enormous lungfuls of air but it feels like he's hardly breathing.

".......yes?" His mom answers, quizzically. "That's good, Scott."

"GOOD!?!?" Scott sputters. "GOOD!? I'M HALLUCINATING AND HOW IS THAT GOOD?!" 

"Mr. Moir," The hallucination says calmly. He refuses to look at it.

"No. You don't exist." He asserts. That will show her.

"Pretty sure I do," the hallucination continues, confused. He still refuses to look, but he's pretty sure that he still sees her forehead crease and a somewhat adorable pout appear on her face. It's so familiar. God, his head hurts.

"Scott? Look at her." His mom is using the no-nonsense voice. The one that means he needs to clean his room. He looks up at his mom, helplessly. She points at the hallucination. Scott slowly turns his head. The hallucination does not disappear. 

"Fuck. You're real. Are you real?" He stammers.

"I am." A bit of a curious smile appears on her face. 

"And did we win Olympic medals in ice dance together?" Scott asks, hopeful.

"I'm going to go with 'no' on that one, but I will give you credit, because that is probably the most creative introduction I've had all day. Tessa Virtue. I'm on the clinical sports psychology team." She stuck out her hand. He grabbed it like he needed it to live.

"Oh. Ohhhhh. Oh hi. I'm....I'm a little mixed up right now." Scott was pretty sure he was blushing.

"I can see that. Ice dance. Very original. And Olympic medallists. I'm touched. I haven't skated since I was probably....9.... so that really is flattering."

"So...I have a concussion?" Scott tries out his grasp of this new world.

"It's a pretty sure bet at this point, yes." Ms? Dr? Virtue nods emphatically and not at all like a hallucination.

"And I'm a hockey player and not a figure skater."

"That's correct."

"And you're my ...psychologist. Are you old enough to be a psychologist? You don't look old enough to be a psychologist."

"I'm a PhD candidate. I'm doing my thesis on post-concussion recovery."

Scott nods dumbly. "So you're not a psychologist?"

"Not yet. Not licensed, anyway. But I have a special interest in your case."

"MY case?"

"Mmmhmm. When I was a teenager, I was a dancer. And I got injured. And I had to quit. And I was seventeen, and feeling sorry for myself and my sister took me to see a London Knights game. And it was a playoff game. And I saw this guy -- a really talented player -- this idiot -- get into a fight with a 6 foot 4 Swede and just get his clock cleaned." Tessa's mouth twitched as if she were trying to hold in a laugh.

"That's not how I remember it." Scott sniffed snippily.

"Well, you have a concussion, so...." 

"Haha. Funny."

"Anyway, I was absolutely fascinated. So I decided to go to school to see if there was any way to help this talented idiot."

"And?"

"And he became an NHL player. And got his clock cleaned again. And I got to see it!"

"You...you were there? You were there!" I saw you there."

"Impossible."

"I did. In the crowd. Just before I..." he gestured vaguely at his head.

"And then we danced at the Olympics together."

"Yes. Well...no. Not really. You're having fun with this, aren't you?"

"A little bit."

"So...about the helping the idiot thing. Is it possible?"

"I think so. No more ice for a while. No more getting punched. Definitely no more Olympic ice dancing."

"More you?"

"And other people. Lots of therapy. Probably a lot of talking about feelings. You're going to love it."

Scott thought about it -- really thought about it. It frightened him. It made his head swim. But he looked at her, this girl who had seen this idiot hockey player in need of saving and changed her entire career. He looked her right in her bright, determined, gorgeous green eyes, and for the first time, in a long time, he felt better.

__|__  
|     |

 


End file.
